The Following Dark
by opsomath
Summary: In which Sir Terry has a long walk to the pub. One-shot, homage - this is the first fan fiction I've ever written. Memory eternal.


The vista was grey and stretched on and on. The eyes of its many travelers hunted for the relief of a horizon, but this space failed to obey the gentle geometries of a human world. Over the flat grey plain, laid out in unrelieved lines stretching in all directions, troubling shadows stalked. In one direction, terribly distant, a pinprick of brilliant light shattered the monotony.

Without any warning, a greying man in a black hat appeared. He staggered for a moment, staring about himself in confusion. In a moment, the disorientation in his eyes slipped away, and he drew himself up. His eyes lingered for a moment on the nearest shadow. Craning his neck in all directions, he turned to face the brilliant light, and set off towards it. He had the brisk but unhurried gait of one accustomed to walking, the stick in his right hand touching briefly with every other stride but bearing little of his weight. He did not delay. The dark was following.

A few dozen (or was it more) paces later, the man could no longer maintain his untroubled gait. The darkness behind him was creeping closer, and it seemed to have a voice. The voice murmured things at him. Questioning. Mocking. Demanding. Worse, the voice giggled, and sung to itself little nonsense songs, songs which he seemed to remember from his childhood. As he broke from a brisk walk into a run, the darkness enveloped him. He spun to face it, raising his stick as a figure bounded towards him from the center of the black, its feet and hands clicking on the firmament. As it leapt at the man, he let out a howl of challenge and anger, the cry of the quarry who refused to be hunted any longer. His blow caught it alongside its gaunt head as it leapt, and it was upon him. The wizened horror bore him hard to the ground, bony fingers wrapping his head and neck as its cold breath blew in his ear, terribly intimate. The man thrashed on the ground, entangled with his terrible hunter.

Suddenly, the horror's weight was ripped off him. The man heard the clacking of hard boots on the firmament. A voice spoke. " 'Ere, now, none of that. Oi'll 'ave ye in for disorderly." A stocky man in a policeman's uniform stood over the traveler, the horror dangling by its neck from one meaty hand. Light from the distant source gleamed off the patrolman's helmet. "Be off now." He tossed it on the ground sidewise, like a careless man would discard a cigarette wrapper. It shrieked and leapt back at the traveler, who had raised himself to a seated position.

The patrolman's club of dark wood met the thing in midair with a crunching sound. A couple of yellowed, pointy teeth ticked and skittered across the firmament. The thing, its trajectory interrupted, struck and slid a few feet. It popped to its haunches, glared corrosive hatred at everything, and bounded away.

" 'Ere you are, Sir Terry." The policeman helped the traveler to his feet with a hand. "Captain put out a call for a special escort. Volunteer, like. 'Course, all the lads put in - it seemed the respectful thing, plus it was rainin' pretty hard in Ankh-Morpork that day - so we had to pull names out of a boot. Captain wrote 'em down, see? On little bits of paper." This last was delivered with the air of someone shedding light on a thorny problem. As the patrolman spoke, other figures in uniforms and helmets had tramped up.

"Right, well, we'd better be off, 'adn't we? Got a bit of walking to get through today. ATTEN-SHUN! LEFT FACE!" At this, the remainder of the squad stiffened and spun, largely to their left. One, whose badge read NOBBS, gave a quick glance to either side, observed that everyone else was facing the other direction, and quickly adjusted. The traveller nodded appreciatively, and set off again, the squad surrounding him.

...

Warm lamplight gleamed off polished wood and beer taps, and a haze of fragrant smoke covered everything. The white-haired old man stood off his barstool and stretched, starting for the bathroom. "Jack, if that barman comes back, get us two pints of the same stuff, will you? He'll be here any minute." The balding man in the tweed jacket nodded absently, not looking up from a leather volume embossed on the cover with what appeared to be a trunk with lots of little legs. The older man walked briskly towards the back of the pub. On his friend's other side, another stool was empty. On the gleaming bar, a folded place-card was open. In it, in an elegant block hand, was written "SIR TERRY."


End file.
